


Admissions

by corvusdraconis, Dragon_and_the_Rose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen, Ottermione, karma isn't taking your bs, otter justice, otterly amusing sense of karma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22270906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvusdraconis/pseuds/corvusdraconis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_and_the_Rose/pseuds/Dragon_and_the_Rose
Summary: Written for the SSHG Giftfest 2019 on Livejournal.SSHG: Severus has his foot deeply seated in his mouth again, and it's going to take an otterly intervention to get it out again. Then again, Crookshanks is tired of the two pussy-footing around each other. That's his job, after all.An Ottermione story.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 28
Kudos: 328





	Admissions

This is a giftfic for the SS/HG gift exchange for 2019. It was gifted to the community as my original victim had to drop out.

 **Warnings** : Lily bashing

 **Beta Love:** The Dragon and the Rose, Dutchgirl01, Flyby Commander Shepard, and one Worrywart under duress.

* * *

**Admissions**

_You build on failure. You use it as a stepping stone. Close the door on the past. You don't try to forget the mistakes, but you don't dwell on it. You don't let it have any of your energy, or any of your time, or any of your space._

**Johnny Cash**

* * *

He was _doomed_.

Again.

Doomed to feel the sting of an emotion that wasn't anger.

No, anger he could handle just fine.

Anger was an old, familiar friend— the sort of friend you never invited, but it showed up to crash your parties, ruin your life, and never left your couch after claiming it only needed a week or two to get things sorted out.

He didn't like having only anger as his constant companion, but the only other emotion that he alternated or shared time with was guilt: guilt over a woman long dead.

And what did he have to offer the world now that the Dark Lord— no Tom Riddle— was well and truly dead?

Potions?

Avid expertise?

So _what_ if his business was successful.

So _what_ if he could cow a person with a look, a glare.

So _what_ if he no longer had to teach.

What good was surviving if you never truly _lived_?

_**Squeak!** _

_**Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!** _

An otter bounced by his counter, laser lining his products with eerie precision.

What was disgusting was that the menace could work far more efficiently than any human he'd ever known, and she only had webbed feet and a definite vertical challenge.

She seemed to prefer being that way.

Hell, he used to nag upon her all the time to cease her endless prattling on.

Until she stopped speaking altogether.

Potter was busy being an Auror, a father, a best mate to the red-headed weasel.

Weasley— he had fallen into the very lack of activity after the death of his brother, lacking any passion for life he might have once had when the war was still very much on the forefront. Ronald Weasley lacked all the things that a true _Mustela_ had. Stoats and the like at least were small and active. Fierce, even. Ronald was not. He just ate himself into a stupor, using that one talent for bottomless eating to write horrible food commentary across Britain.

It might have been welcome if he had any sense of taste at all.

No, the Mustelidae in his life was worth a hundred Potters and a thousand, thousand Weasleys. It really wasn't insulting Arthur— the poor man was still struggling to piece together his grieving wife and tattered family, working harder than any sole wizard deserved to work just to make ends meet.

In his case, it was to rebuild the home they had lost during the war— painstakingly attempting to recreate a lost time when their life was squeaky but whole.

The otter squeak-bounced by again, carrying a tiny, shrunken basket of hair tonic for wizards and bikini elixir for the "modern" witch who went the way of Muggles and tried to bake themselves into bronzed goddesses without turning into boiled lobsters in the process.

They had sun creams for that, but much like Muggles, most wizards and witches simply forgot to put it on until they were already well on their way to painfully seared epidermis.

No, they had a full line of products at the store, and business was at the very least busy and at the very best ensuring well-padded coffers.

But therein was the rub.

He didn't exactly go out and spend any of it, and he was as about as akin to philanthropy as he was to begin a sordid love affair with Sirius bloody Black.

The otter in his life sneezed, her fur standing on end as she glowered at a basket of silken sachets in a wide assortment of scents from spring lilac and sweet apple to fresh mown grass and Earl Grey tea— the entire line of locker and cupboard deodorisers that always sold disgustingly well. It wasn't that they smelled unpleasant exactly— they simply didn't agree with a certain discerning otter's highly sensitive nose.

Quidditch teams loved them because they got rid of the overwhelming stank that came with sweat-drenched _every_ things. Despite magic and a multitude of ways to clean— locker rooms were always locker rooms. No amount of house-elf or otherwise could really dispel that kind of stench without a little extra help.

_**Foop!** _

Hermione was on another shelf, having Apparated just a few shelves up to pat a few lines of soap and shampoo into order.

**Thud.**

_**Squeak!** _

_**Squeak-squeaky-squeak!** _

She was off across the floor again, an otter-sized duster in her mouth.

As amusing as her antics were, he found he missed the sound of her voice in their debates, their avid discussions about potions and efficacy, the balance of ingredients that only true masters would care about. As much as he once ragged on her about her constant prattle—

He missed it.

Her _bossiness_.

Her _spark_.

Her _cheek_.

Gods, she had it in spades—

Until that day when he'd—

Done the unthinkable, _again_.

Let his mouth run before he could stop it.

The day she had shifted her otter form and refused to shift back.

He'd done countless things since to try and apologise. He'd even tried saying it outright, but it was all for naught.

" _Maybe I didn't_ _ **want**_ _to be saved, Miss Granger. Did you think saving me would elevate your sense of worth for a world that doesn't care about you? No one cares about you, Miss Granger. They'll just use you until the day you die."_

The look on her face had told him everything he hadn't ever wanted to see on her— ever. Pain, guilt, shame, anger—

Then nothing.

Hermione Granger had just faded from existence leaving an otter in her place.

Lily had at least told him to fuck off.

She'd at least told him he was worthless— irredeemable.

She'd at least slapped his face.

But Granger—

She honoured their contract, their business, but she never spoke a single word again.

His fault.

He was truly a masterful _idiot_.

He missed what they previously had: the ease, the comfort.

And he'd done mucked that up royally.

Now, he couldn't even get more than a few squeaks out of her or occasionally an annoyed ottery glare.

She'd read her books, run the store, do research, brew flawless potions, even (somehow) haggle for the best prices with vendors— without a word of English.

He'd considered asking Minerva to teach him to become an Animagus to see if he could communicate with her that way, but he had a feeling that doing so would no more endear himself to Hermione than his blunder in the first place.

No, with _his_ sodding luck he'd probably end up as a clam or sea urchin Animagus, and Hermione would bash him senseless with a rock and eat out his insides while he was still quite conscious of his fate as well as the agonising pain.

_No one cares about you, Miss Granger._

No one.

Snape twitched.

The implication of his words had been damningly clear.

He attempted to block her way, hoping to have a word with her.

She simply headed in the opposite direction.

He tried to get her attention with books and various other things that he knew she liked.

She avoided them all like they were poison.

He tried to leave her notes.

They lay there the next day, unopened, unread.

He was at his wit's end just trying to find an opening back into some semblance of communication that didn't involve being squeaked at in otterese or nothing at all.

He hated to admit it, but he almost preferred Lily's repudiation to this entirely professional limbo.

At least with Lily, there was no doubt whatsoever as to how utterly fucked he was.

He didn't want this strict, chilly, entirely rigid—

Acceptable.

Normal—

It was _maddening_.

He wanted—

The bell on the store door jingled, and a wizard carrying a huge bouquet of flowers walked into the store backwards, opening the front door with his posterior. He turned. "Delivery for Master Granger?"

Snape scowled.

Hermione squeaked from the far counter.

"Ah, Master Granger. Delivery for you— could you just uh— well place your paw here?"

Hermione thumped her front paw into the self-inking parchment.

"Excellent. Thank you, Master Granger." He set down an ornate vase filled with a mix of beautiful orchids and other colourful flowers. "Have a good day."

The man exited quickly, on his way to the next delivery.

Hermione gave an appraising squeak as she pushed the flower vase down the counter to sit on her desk. Then, she was back to work, adjusting the products on the shelves to perfection.

Severus felt the stone sink deep into his gut as he realised that Hermione had a suitor, and he—

He had so firmly slammed the door in her face that there was no possibility of anything more between them.

* * *

The night a young wizard dressed in professorial robes came in to the shoppe, he looked so terribly out of place. He was attractive, clean-cut, and professional-looking with intelligent hazel eyes.

The back curtain rustled, and Hermione bounced out, the tang of sea water and salt mixed with that alluring yet undefinable scent that was so distinctly Hermione.

Snape's nostrils flared as a cold shiver went down his back. It had always been hers, that scent, even before she'd finished her Animagus studies as a way to bond with that stuffy old cat back at Hogwarts.

As if her mastery studies hadn't been enough to take on at the time.

As if studying under Master Kaelin, perhaps the only potions master that could run circles around him, hadn't been exemplary enough.

As if working odd cases here and there for the bloody Department of Mysteries wasn't stimulating enough—

" _Why did you save me, Ms Granger?"_

_She looked at him with such baffled brown eyes. "Isn't it obvious?"_

" _I am not a mind reader, Granger, despite the rumours that perpetuate the idea that I casually tromp through other minds much like Albus Pompous Dumbledore did."_

_Hermione frowned. "Your life was worth something to me."_

" _Why?"_

_Hermione's eyebrows furrowed. "What is wrong with being worth something? Must I spell it out for you?"_

" _Whatever hare-brained reason you have for saving the worthless life of a world-weary spy seems worthless in comparison to so many other, far more deserving lives around you at the time."_

_Hermione snorted. "What is so hard to believe about your life being worth something? Do you think because you don't have red hair or sit in the good regard of those that never knew you that this somehow makes you less of a life to be saved?"_

" _Maybe I didn't_ _ **want**_ _to be saved, Miss Granger. Did you think saving me would elevate your sense of worth for a world that doesn't care about you? No one cares about you, Miss Granger. They'll just use you until the day you die."_

Severus shook with the power of that one, horrible memory— the memory that was becoming as infamous as the one Potter had seen in the Pensieve.

Worse— because he hadn't been tortured or even heckled to be cruel to her.

He'd just done it.

And he regretted it the moment her eyes had gone dark to him— her spark of life and warmth shut away as effectively as his own Occlumency.

Hermione rose from her otter form for the first time in months, allowing the younger wizard to loop his arm around her.

"Good evening, Master Granger. Ready for tonight's symposium?"

"Of course, Armand, thank you for inviting me, and thank you so much for the beautiful flowers."

The wizard took her hand, raising it to his head where he kissed her knuckles. "It was a pleasure."

Hermione smiled at him, politely but genuine.

The pair left, and Hermione didn't even give Snape a single backward glance as she flipped the sign to closed and left down the street.

Even as his heart threatened to rise up, burst open, and strangle him with his own heartstrings, he could only wither in the very thought that the smile she had given had been the first he'd seen since he'd thrown her compassion into her face and burned every bridge he'd once had to seeing her smile at him.

* * *

He woke halfway during the night as he heard her return to the apartments above the shop at some half past oh-dark thirty in the black stillness of night. He heard her footsteps— human ones— as she walked to the hall to her flat.

There was a time when they would sit together in the shared main room— basically an overgrown, stuffed to bursting library— just reading and sharing silent company. Then, there had been no uncomfortable silence.

There were times they shared the same settee, and Hermione would sometimes slump against him having fallen asleep in mid-read.

He'd never told her how special those moments had been because they had also been embarrassing. His lower body would tighten in arousal as her warmth spilled over him with her scent. He'd never told her just how comforting the scent of her was, or how poignant it was that in her sleep she'd snuggle into him like some disturbing black-clad gothic teddy.

He'd desired her, even then, but his ironclad control had always won out. He never wanted to lose what he'd somehow gained, but in doing so he'd never had the courage to tell her how much he had come to need her in his life. He hadn't wanted to face her cold rejection as he'd once faced Lily's.

And Lily—

She hadn't been the perfect angel that everyone believed her to be.

She'd fed his unrequited love and desire for her with all the manipulative skill of Albus Dumbledore himself.

He'd let her because he'd placed her upon that golden pedestal himself.

She'd taken his virginity and left him over a word…

A single bloody word.

She'd taken more than just that— his pride, his disillusionment in believing that he could live with it.

She'd given him a crushing sense of guilt.

She'd then taken her newfound experience to impress upon her real interests until she finally settled down with—

With—

Potter.

Was it any _wonder_ he'd spewed his lingering hatred all over Hermione like molten lava out of Pompei when all she'd wanted was some simple acknowledgement that it was acceptable for her to care about him?

And he _did_ want her to care about him. That was, perhaps, the main rub.

He wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms and never, ever let her go—

_And she will never look at you with trust again after what you said to make her think she was not worth anyone's regard._

_Ever._

_She can't even bear to be a human witch around you._

_You drove her into being a sodding otter._

_You deserve to be alone, you temperamental Slytherin bastard._

Even as he cringed that she had stayed out late, having evidently had an enjoyable enough time to linger out on the town, a part of him found profound relief in the fact that at least she hadn't brought the wizard back to her bed.

Part of him protested he had no right at all to be upset if she chose to move on— even if _he_ couldn't.

He closed his eyes, trying to will himself to sleep, but when he finally did he dreamed he was a fish and otter-Hermione bit off his head and ate him for her dinner.

* * *

Armand came to the shoppe every week to whisk her off to various fancy social events, and with each one, he felt his heart doing its best to shrivel up and die all over again.

She always greeted the man as a happy human witch— laughing, smiling.

Then, as if his tortured, unrequited heart hadn't given up the ghost already, he caught Hermione talking into the floo.

"Harry, I don't really—"

"Come _on_ , Hermione. Just one date with my mate Callum Dawlish here at the Aurory. He's a really cool bloke. Smart. Talented. Way less lazy than most."

"Harry—"

"Hermione," Harry's voice came through the floo. "Please? Just consider it my birthday present for this year."

Snape could hear Hermione's boot scraping across the flagstone floor. A gusty sigh. "Fine."

"Thanks, Hermione!" a beat. "Be sure to wear your best dress, yeah?"

"Harry Potter, I will wear whatever I bloody well please. If he cannot accept me for how I choose to dress, then I don't want him to be comfortable."

"Okay, okay! He'll pick you up tonight at seven sharp."

A minute later, a glistening, squeaky otter ran by his feet and promptly started to shelve innumerable bottles of his patented Long Nights wizard tonic.

Severus' expression twisted with pained anguish as he attempted to approach her once more.

"Please, Hermione," he said. "Speak to me. Yell at me. Hit me. Hex me— Anything, just please put an end to the silence."

Hermione's body froze, her fur seeming to stand on end.

Severus took a step forward. Another.

Her brown eyes locked with his— yet they revealed absolutely nothing. He felt a stab of pain in his heart like a dagger. The warmth he'd known— even since she was a child waving her hand like some know-it-all swot— was gone.

His words left him.

He wanted so much to scoop her up— to crush her to his chest. He wanted her to understand how much he truly hadn't meant to hurt her, how much he'd come to care for her— despite his clumsy damned mouth trying to tell her otherwise.

Cutting words were so easy— reflexive, habitual. He'd left them behind with Lily's ultimate betrayal.

He may have said the word that drove her to end what paltry friendship they had once had, be had tried to apologise. With every apology fallen upon deaf ears and her blaming him having friends that were Slytherins.

Like he could somehow stop being Slytherin.

Simply stop getting along with the very people he had to _LIVE_ with.

Right.

But her gentle compassion had inadvertently struck a nerve he hadn't realised was very much raw and exposed (still) until it was far too late.

People who were good to him had never failed to extract a hidden price for their acts of kindness.

Except for her.

Except for Hermione.

And he had royally mucked up a beautiful peace— contentment, warmth.

Now, protected by a barrier that seemed as dense as her otter fur, her gaze held nothing for him anymore.

Dark.

Occluded.

Lifeless.

Had she truly cared for him so much that he'd hurt her so terribly?

His heartstrings threatened to take him out once again. He could feel them rising up out of his chest to choke him, bend his knees, and make him grovel.

Yes. He had hurt her.

Why _else_ could she not even face him as a human being?

Why wouldn't the words come to his beck and call— now when he needed them so much?

The front door chime rang suddenly, and Minerva walked through it. The noise startled him, and Hermione bounced hurriedly toward the door.

"Oh! Hermione! There you are!" Minerva cooed, picking the otter up and snuggling her. "Ready for our witches' day outing?"

Hermione slapped her webbed paws against Minerva's smiling wrinkled face, squeaking excitedly.

"Alright then, my dear, just you and me," she said, snuggling her again tightly.

"Hello, Severus," Minerva greeted with a polite nod.

Snape could only nod back dumbly, foiled by unfortunate timing and tongue-tying in the area of speaking his heart to the one person he wanted so desperately to understand him.

"We'll be back later on tonight," Minerva said, exiting the store with Hermione in her arms, leaving him alone and bereft.

Alone had never felt so unspeakably awful as it did in that moment.

* * *

"Has he not apologised yet, my dear?"

"He's tried." Hermione sighed, fingering the soft silk scarf and a silken cravat that had a beautiful dark green and black swirling pattern on it. She winced and closed her eyes. "But he won't even tell me _why_ he slammed the door in my face. He'd been so quiet, so comfortable around me and then— he asked that question like it was all my fault that he survived, as if he hated that I had. Hated— me."

Minerva gave her a pinched look, frowning. "Surely he doesn't mean it like that."

"That's just it, Mineva. I don't know anything. I just presumed— I thought—"

Hermione's life seemed to seep out of her body from every pore. "Harry and Ron warned me about him, you know? That it would never work. Harry at least said he'd seen things in the memories that made it highly unlikely that he could ever— I'm such an _idiot_."

Minerva put a hand on her shoulder. "Hermione, I know you think it's completely hopeless, but when I saw you two together I sensed that it was something quite special. I've never seen him so utterly content to let things be— to let the whole bloody world think what it would as long as his world remained just as it was."

Hermione lifted her head, frowning.

Minerva frowned, deep in thought. "Albus was not kind to Severus— nor was he fair to him. Much like how he put Harry in a number of impossible positions, like being kept under the yoke of a hateful family, he mercilessly subjugated Severus using his emotions and mistakes against him. Albus' portrait finally had to tell me the truth when I became headmistress. The portraits are all bound to tell me the truth— and many of those truths I did not like very much ."

Minerva sighed. "Look, I'm not saying that he doesn't need to actually apologise in a manner that explains what he was thinking at the time, but— he of all people, does have a number of hidden triggers."

"Much like Harry."

Minerva nodded sombrely. "Yes, I suppose that is quite true."

The cat Animagus looked up. "Hermione, why is it that you stay an otter around him?"

Hermione's hand idly stroked the silken cravat. "Because when I'm human, all I want is to be held by him. I cannot bear to stand by him and know— that I can never be that close to him."

"Oh, love," Minerva said, taking her in a hug. "You really have it bad, don't you?"

Hermione gazed longingly at the handsome silk cravat and closed her eyes in pain.

* * *

Severus caught the enticing scent of Hermione's special shampoo blend and winced as he realised it was one he had brewed her what seemed like an eternity ago. He remembered how brightly she had smiled at him as she had smelled it— the touch of her hand over his as she pressed a tender kiss upon his cheek in appreciation.

He realised it would be petty and wasteful to toss perfectly good shampoo, but the fact that she hadn't made him hope beyond all reason that there could be forgiveness somewhere for him.

His hand twitched as he ran his fingers up his arm in a self-reassuring gesture, his mind imagining her previous generous touches and affectionate assaults upon his personal space. The motion was foiled by his endless line of buttons, and he growled in frustration.

The bell on the door rang, and he curled his lip instinctively as a younger wizard walked in with heavy steps— the likes of which that would have made Alastor Moody's stomps and tromps seem like the soft, silent footfalls of a stalking feline.

"I'll be down in a few minutes!" Hermione's voice called out from upstairs.

Crookshanks padded out from behind the curtain and jumped up on the counter, stretching and smelling like his fresh salmon dinner.

The half-Kneazle had always remained a purely neutral party in the ongoing drama of the store, seeming to care far more about getting pets and food than taking sides. He did, however, offer up feline judgemental looks with gusto— like a typical cat that felt it knew a lot more about you than you ever knew about yourself.

He had a small paper-wrapped parcel in his mouth, which he promptly spat out upon the counter.

_**Mrrrroooowwwwhhhhrrllll!** _

Crooks' loud and deep meow practically vibrated the product off the counter.

His paw batted at the parcel as his teeth sank into the twine and began to unravel it.

_**Sssst!** _

Snape hissed, grabbing up the parcel from the busybody feline.

The package split open as Crooks' sharp claws and teeth refused to release their grip on his prize without a damned good fight.

Paper ripped and tore open as a beautiful black and forest green silk cravat fell out, a large parchment label proudly proclaiming " _handmade and hand-dyed silk goods by Bewitching Witchcrafts — fine quality fashion for the discerning witch and wizard."_

He stared down at it in utter amazement. His fingers touched it reverently even as his heart sped up and his breath caught in his throat.

"So, you're the stupid sod who broke Granger's heart," the young wizard sneered behind him. "Harry told me all about you."

Severus spun as he fluidly stuffed the cravat into his pocket, not wanting the arrogant _boy_ to see something so beautiful and— truly thoughtful.

"I don't know what you _think_ you know, boy," Snape growled, "but I'm quite certain that you know _nothing_ of the truth."

"Oh, now I think you're wrong, old man," Dawlish drawled. "You see, Harry Potter is a really great Auror and all, but he can't hold his firewhisky to save his life. I heard all about your grand obsession with a long-dead witch and how you went and broke his best female friend's heart over her."

The young Auror rubbed his chin, looking Snape up and down with clear disdain, then he smirked at him. "I don't know what the witch ever saw in you. But after tonight, hell… she won't even remember your name."

Severus had his hand around the Auror's throat in an instant, crushing the robes together in a chokehold.

"Planning on performing a bit of Obliviation along with that Long Nights wizard's elixir you just pocketed from our shelf, Auror Dawlish?" Severus snarled into the younger man's face. He plucked the distinctive blue bottle out of the Auror's pocket and placed it back on the counter, where Crookshanks gleefully whacked it off the counter with his paw.

Snape scowled. "I may be a right-arsed bastard, Auror Dawlish, and I may have hurt her more than I ever wanted to, but at least I didn't mean to do it. She may never know how much I love her, and that may be only what I deserve, but at least I would never treat her like some sort of prize to be won— some pretty window dressing to be dusted off for vanity's sake and then shoved back into a box. That is what you _really_ want, isn't it, Auror Dawlish? A war heroine trophy wife?"

"So what if I _do_ , Snape? It isn't like she wants to go out and mingle, sample what's on offer out there. She gets to rot away in a pile of dusty books, doing nothing, and all of her considerable fame and fortune goes to the wizard that ends up taking care of her." The man's smile was utterly smug and predatory. "Besides I'll be the best she ever had or ever _will_ , and when she comes out, all she'll see is you strangling her date."

Snape's strong fingers tightened inexorably around the younger wizard's neck.

"What makes you think there will be a body left for anyone to find?" His magic crackled around his fingers. His eyes darkened even more. The lines of his dark, thunderous expression seemed to sit in stark contrast to his pale, bloodless face. His knuckles whitened as his nails seemed to dig deeper into the Auror's brawny neck. If the other wizard had any hidden, silent, and wandless magic, it might have leaked out his ears and nose while facing Snape's wrathful glare.

It was countless years worth of ridicule.

Being bullied.

Being _used_.

Being told one thing and then lied to again and again.

Having everything one thought one could have had, slipping through their fingers like mere grains of sand—

Being damned _pissed off_ about it.

But nothing—

Nothing matched the raw fury Snape had for one who would intentionally do harm to the one witch who gave far more than she ever asked for—

"I have nothing left to lose, Auror Dawlish," he seethed. "I have already ruined something incredibly beautiful. Something beyond precious to me. It was all I had, and I will never see its like again. But if I cannot have her trust, I will be damned before I let someone like you take her for anything less than the absolute goddess she is."

Snape's teeth ground together. "Not anymore. I've seen you shoplift from my store numerous times. And I've also seen you threaten to use a witch for her money and status."

"No one will ever believe the likes of you, a failed Death Eater," Dawlish hissed, half choking. "I know all about you."

Snape pointed his wand to his temple as a silvery strand of memories came out. " _Expecto Patronum,"_ he hissed. A brilliant blue-white otter came flowing out of his wand, took the strand of memories in its mouth as it squeaked and flew out the cracked-open door— but not before slapping its tail against Dawlish's face a few times and nailing him in the family jewels with its sharp Mustelid teeth.

"It's just your word against mine, Snape," Dawlish snarled as he clutched his injured bollocks. "All I need to do is tell Potter that you conjured a vial of fabricated memories— and who would believe an old, perverted failure of a Dark wizard like _you_?"

Dawlish abruptly jumped, yelping in agony as something grabbed ahold of his already painful privates and crushed them between sharp, dangerously strong jaws even as —

One exceedingly furious otter used a highly polished, obviously well-loved stone to bash Dawlish's already mangled privates like a clam against a boulder as he screamed loud enough to wake the dead.

Dawlish writhed desperately and kicked out, sending the brassed-off aquatic mammal flying against the front counter where she crashed headlong into it with a sickening crack.

"You think attacking me with stupid trained animals is going to help your case any, Snape?!" he snarled.

It was perhaps then that Auror Callum Dawlish might have arrived at a deductive quandary in which the answer began with pi and ended with a wholly imaginary negative number— or, he may have just pissed his pants in horror.

A visibly _livid_ Hermione slowly rose up from the ground where she had been unceremoniously thrown, and her hands— still twisted into the webbed finger-paws of an otter, viciously slashed at the Auror's throat.

"I collect my honour-price for your slander upon the judgment of Olde Magick," she said, her magic rising and gathering every second into her body, her hair, her eyes. Her amber-flecked brown irises blazed with magic. "People think that I am a mere Muggleborn and that I do not understand magic, and perhaps they are right. But maybe, just maybe, magic understands _us_ better than we can ever understand each other. Maybe we are so busy trying to be right, trying to be perfect, we forget what we have right in front of us. Magic remembers. Magic doesn't forget— and mine, Auror Dawlish, does not choose to forgive the likes of _you_."

Her claws dug deep into his neck as magic poured from her body into his like poison from a venom-tipped fang. "May Olde Magick judge your guilt or innocence, for _I_ cannot."

She flung Dawlish onto the ground in front of a party of newly-arrived Aurors, as well as the Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Head Auror Harry Potter stumbled back in shock as Dawlish frantically clutched at his head, screaming in agony as a raging river of magic poured from his eyes and mouth, his nose, ears, and even the individual pores of his skin. Gills formed where Hermione had slashed his throat as scales and fins swiftly replaced hair and limbs. His body twisted and thrashed as magic continued to pour from his tortured limbs and formed into—

_**Pop!** _

_**Pop! Pop!** _

_**Pop!** _

Fluffy soot-ball looking things formed in the magic, sprouting multiple legs and eyes.

" _Ooo!"_ they chimed. " _A new home!"_

" _Look at all the shiny bottles!"_

" _I like shiny things."_

" _Me too!"_

" _Let's explore!"_

" _Zokay!"_

They swarmed over the store and quickly disappeared into the cracks.

Meanwhile, Auror Dawlish gasped for air as he helplessly flopped around on the floor as a terrified-looking skipjack tuna.

 _ **Mrrowl**_ , Crookshanks meowed excitedly, pouncing from the counter in a bee-line toward the tasty fresh fish meal.

Kingsley hurriedly caught the eager half-Kneazle and gently restrained him, distracting the hungry feline with a salmon jerky snack from the nearby kitty treat jar.

"Potter, kindly have someone take Dawlish here into custody and see if he can be cured. If not, I suppose the Wizengamot will be experiencing a brand-new first in putting a… fish on trial."

Harry rubbed uncomfortably at his mop of black hair, his face scrunching up in distaste. "Uhh, yes Minister," he mumbled as a few more gawking Aurors slammed into his back and toppled him over onto the flopping tuna.

Dawlish made gasping sounds, helplessly flopping about even while half-pinned to the floor by Harry's body.

"Idiots," Snape snorted, yanking Harry up by the collar like an errant schoolboy. He plunked him back down on his feet and then conjured an appropriately-sized aquarium around the flopping tuna.

Harry barked out orders as they did scans of the shop and collected memories.

"Great, more of my memories left to be seen and fondled like Muggle television," Snape looked utterly disgusted.

"Sir, I assure you only the Aurors will—"

"Yes, and that prevented all _this_ from happening."

Harry paled.

Hermione had her arms crossed in front of her, but she seemed to hug herself. "Is it true what you said— about me?"

Snape closed his eyes, anger coming to him easily, whether he desired it or not. He stamped it down. "It doesn't matter anymore. You've made your feelings plain enough, I think."

His frown deepened as his teeth clenched together as conflicting emotions warred within in, but anger won. Anger was an old friend. Anger was— comfortable.

"You haven't talked to me in _months_ , Granger, what exactly am I to think? You avoid my every attempt at apology. You won't even look at me as a human being!"

"I didn't _want_ an apology!" she hissed, her hair rising into nigh-sentient tendrils. "I wanted an explanation! And you gave me nothing to go on, not even so much as a clue. Not a word as to _why_ you could be so bloody cruel. That is all I wanted from you. Not apologies. Not books. Not trinkets. I wanted to know if we even had a chance to communicate— to possibly form a partnership outside of this business, But you won't tell me _why_ you tore my heart out and stomped all over it."

Hermione tore at her hair in obvious frustration and trembled with the strength of her emotional turmoil.

"I loved you so much it physically hurt. I saved you because you deserved to live. I fell in love with you as we built this life together. I didn't _care_ if you never knew. I didn't _care_ if you went your whole life not knowing how I felt— I was _fine_ caring for you from a distance! Being your business partner. Setting up this store. As long as you were happy—"

Hermione stiffened. "And I'm sorry I robbed you of your death— that I could never be— _HER_. It was better to be an otter than a woman who could never have the love of a man who pined for the dead."

She tore at her own hair. "I wish Harry had never told you I saved your life!"

Snape gaped at her, struggling to find words— words that had always come easy before but failed so epically when he needed them. He glared at Potter, knowing that he'd shared his memories to more than just the Aurors, and Harry winced under the scrutiny even as Kingsley saw the exchange and frowned.

Hermione, her wrath failing her as she realised she'd confessed to so many things in front of Kingsley, Harry, and multiple Aurors, let out a despondent cry as—

_**CRACK!** _

She was gone.

Severus dropped to his knees, cradling his head between his knees as his world suddenly seemed even more bleak and ultimately more damned.

* * *

_**Auror Callum Dawlish Found Guilty of Petty Thievery and Plotting to Marry Beloved War Heroine for Power, Monetary Gain** _

* * *

_**Master of Transfiguration, Arithmancy, and Potions, Hermione Granger, Calls Upon Olde Magick's Judgement— Turns Auror Callum Dawlish, Son of Retired Senior Auror John Dawlish, Into a Magic-drained Tuna** _

* * *

_**Ministry of Magic Under Siege By Tuna-Seeking Felines:** _

_**New Anti-Feline Wards Anger Familiars and Their Bondmates** _

* * *

Snape realised as his feet touched the almost hallowed ground of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry that both the joy of magic and the pain of "social" interactions had blessed and cursed him from the very same place.

It was here he had honed the art of potions but also curses and hexes.

It was here, he had had the friendship of his very first and perhaps only childhood friend— a friendship he had always thought would be there.

It was here he almost died to a werewolf and had a gods-awful life debt to his sworn enemy.

It was here, he had gained the wrath of not just one person but a gang—

It was here, he had lost his childhood friend to an anger-filled, humiliation-fueled word.

It was here he had taught countless dunderheaded children.

Here— where he had first met the hand-waving, know-it-all swot— that had circumstances been different, they would have been two peas in a pod.

Here— where he had died or should have.

He winced.

Here, where he had fully expected to die and yet hadn't because one Hermione Granger hadn't believed the greasy git of the dungeon, bane of her school years, face of torment and ridicule, was not worthy of death.

This was where Dumbledore had died by his hand.

Where the Carrow twins had tried to torture and maim their students, checked only by his wrath and sheer conviction that twisted the Dark Lord's desires into something he could use to protect the children from them.

So much had happened on the blood-soaked ground: the founding of something wondrous, the friendship of four people who couldn't have been more different, the creation of a school dedicated to protect and teach magical children, and the rise and fall of a Dark lord—

He narrowed his eyes.

The Dark lord that would never have been so had Albus himself not brought him to the school and introduced him to magic.

Given all the tools.

All the knowledge.

All the influence.

All the minds to bend to his will.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore had never been a saint, but very few, even now, knew or wished to face that reality.

Surely not Minerva, who had firmly believed Snape to be a murderer as she dueled him in front of the entire school—

Murder in her eyes.

Even as he desperately tried to turn her spells to harm the Carrows instead of himself or the children to keep yet another damnable promise to the master who held his Vow like dog's leash.

It didn't matter that Minerva found out the truth after the fact. She had truly believed him a murderer. She had believed Harry Potter over him— over the word of Albus who had said so many times that Snape was on their side.

It didn't matter that she had apologised after learning the truth.

It didn't matter that he knew Minerva was not the type to forget she had held his tortured body as he writhed and convulsed from Potter, Black, Pettigrew, and Lupin's "pranks."

Forgiveness was not for him.

And it was the same reason he knew in his battered heart that Hermione would never forgive him because he couldn't even forgive himself.

And he would _deserve_ it— this pain that had formed from the first day Lily had finally had enough of him.

It didn't matter that Lily had used him to snag the wizard she truly wanted.

It hadn't mattered that Lily had broken his tortured heart.

It hadn't mattered because in his heart, he believed he'd truly deserved it, even as part of his mind screamed at him that she'd used _him_ and not the other way around.

And now— he couldn't even offer one pure thing to Hermione as proof of his celibacy. She would never be his first. She would always be the one that came after, and damn Potter for having shared those memories of Lily to Hermione Granger.

He'd never be able to tell her the first time about his past; she would always know she had to find out such things from Harry Sodding Rot-in-a-Hole Potter.

Why couldn't things be easy— just _once_?

Why couldn't something he wanted so desperately land neatly in his lap and end up with everything working out like it was _meant_ to be there— not just about some desperate old man pining for what might have been, what he could have had, only for it to slip through his fingers like so many grains of sand?

She was so powerful, beautiful, and _he_ was—

Gods, he was such a failure at life. He couldn't even tell her he cared. He expected her to read the subtle Slytherin clues.

He expected her to deduce and not need the actual words.

He expected her to understand how hard it was for him to speak the words aloud.

He sat down on the edge of the pier, pulled off his boots, and dipped his feet in.

_Coward._

_You're nothing but a gods-damned coward, Severus Snape._

He pulled the silk cravat out from his pocket and gently caressed it with his fingers.

"I love you," he said to the silk. "I have for a long time, but I was far too much a coward to ever tell you so. I was fearful of losing what I already had. I was so afraid that my past would come back to haunt me once more. She used me, you know? Bedded me, practiced her womanly charms— then cast me aside for none other than your best friend's father— and every time I saw him, Harry Potter, I remembered her and what we didn't mean. Every time I wanted so desperately to hold you close, I remembered what I swore to myself: never forget that no one loves you. Even your best friend just used for sex and threw you away."

It was so easy to talk to the silk and not the person. It was easy to pour out his grief and his rage to Black Lake—

How many times had he picked up a stone, infused it with his frustration and rage and then cast it into the lake's all-consuming vastness?

"I don't _deserve_ you, and I told myself that every day, every second I thought of you, but I wanted you anyway. To have you close."

"You were too kind. You cared for everyone. There was nothing special in your care for me. To want more was so selfish, greedy, and to even ask it was to prove you would disappear like she had— Lily. And Potter fucking shared that memory with you too— my life's mistakes on display."

"And now, I can't even look you in the face. I'm here talking to a bloody cravat." Severus slumped, his fingers loosening as he let the silken treasure slip from his fingers into the depths of Black Lake even as a tear slid down his nose and plunked into the water as his shoulders quaked in silent, tortured grief.

The water rippled as if in response. A pair of disgruntled-looking otter eyes glared up at him from beneath a wet, crumpled silk cravat.

She was tangled up in it.

Snape let out a cry as he tried to help her out of it, but the wet silk seemed to twirl and twist around her like a living snare. "Hermione," he cried, reaching for her. "Hermione, please stop—stop struggling!"

She squeaked and twisted as she made almost growling noises.

"Ms Granger!" he yelled.

The otter froze in place, her body sinking like a stone.

Snape cursed as he fumbled for her, his fingers curling around one webbed paw.

SsssssssssKERSPLOOSH!

He was in the water, his arms locked around the otter's tangled body. He coughed up water, kicking his legs to get back to shore.

His legs got tangled in the lake weed, but he pulled free.

The rocks cut his feet, but he refused to stop.

He held her tightly against his body even as she struggled to free herself from the unintentional otter snare.

By the time he got back to the shore, he lay on his back, one waterlogged wizard with a furry otter-shaped barnacle attached to his chest.

She squeaked at him.

He panted and caught his breath. "I'm too old for daring rescues, Ms Granger."

She thumped an outstretched paw to his nose with a _pffffffthsh_ , the only part of her not wrapped up in the waterlogged cravat.

He carefully unwrapped her like he was picking open a Christmas present while attempting to keep the gift wrap utterly pristine, and in a few moments the otter spilt out like nuts from a tin. The cravat went _splat_ up against his face, cutting off his breathing.

He heard a round of squeaking as the otter hurriedly pulled it off his face and he came face to face with concerned brown eyes.

It was the first open window to her emotions that he'd seen in months, and there was clear sadness there.

"I'm sorry, I've been a right tosser," he said quietly. "Royally mucking things up between us. I've loved you for a very long time now, but I've been too much a coward to tell you. The last time I told someone—" He closed his eyes, his hands touching her dense coat of fur. "She took my virginity that night and then told me to piss off. Dropped our friendship over a single misspoken word— and then she married Potter, who believed she was Merlin's gift to the wizarding world and so very, _very_ talented in her ways of pleasing a man. You see— _he_ was in denial too. The very thought that she had lain with me first was utterly inconceivable to him. She was simply a virgin who possessed a remarkably satisfying talent. We were all a bunch of stones for her to step on, but I was the greatest fool in the end, for I truly believed until the day she died that somehow she'd forgive me."

He sighed heavily. "When you asked, it was that terrible night all over again for me—" His eyes fluttered as he winced. "It was the same night I made love to her and she—" His voice was broken. "She made me think anything was possible."

"I'm truly sorry, Hermione," he whispered. "I _never_ wanted to hurt you. I only wanted to hold you close. Love you as a wizard to their witch. And never, ever let you go. And I was willing to let things stay as they were— with you never knowing how I felt— just to have you close as part of me believed you could never accept me as a realistic choice."

A webbed paw smacked him upside the head, and his eyes opened widely.

Hermione was suddenly on top of him in human form, her otter shape melting away.

"We're _such_ a pair aren't we?" she said wryly. "Both of us wanting the other but content to only have the other close, never to touch, for fear their affections would not be returned. Both so fearful of loss. Both thinking the unsaid would _some_ how be obvious— and both waiting in vain for the words the other chose to hold back."

"I've desired you ever since that one night when the potion blew up and we each blamed the other, hurling insults, tossing out perfectly logical and completely barmy reasons for why it could not be _our_ faults— the night I realised you could be a total idiot." She sighed. "And _I_ could be one too."

"No one else could have understood. No one else ever challenged me as you did. Loved books like I did. Was quiet and studious, just like me. Simply _being_ — and I would dream you would take me into your arms and hold me only to wake and despair at how much distance you would place between us."

Severus slumped back, his head thumping up against the rocky shoreline. "I didn't want you to wake up and be— disgusted by me. I never wanted to see your face twist in loathing. You'd sleep in my arms, nestled against me like I was your safest place— I couldn't bear to see you wake up and realise it was _me_ you were clinging to and—flee."

"I wish you had stayed," she replied sadly. "I would have loved to have woken in your arms and found that my dream wasn't so unrealistic after all."

"All I ever wanted was a chance to show that I could be someone special to you, even after everything Harry told me about why it wasn't likely to happen. I wanted to be worth something in your eyes. They day you said those awful things— I finally believed him. I finally believed I had been chasing the sun and been burned because of it."

"You _are_ special," Severus whispered. "You've _always_ been special."

Hermione eyed her lap, seemingly unconvinced.

Snape took her jaw with the tips of his fingers and drew her face up to look at him. "I am so very sorry for having ever made you doubt that. You were always untouchable— just out of reach— far too talented and beautiful to ever be something I could ever have."

Hermione scoffed.

"I know you have little reason to trust in my words anymore, but you _are_ beautiful. Powerful. Talented. Worthy of so much more than— a man like me."

Hermione startled and furrowed her brows. "Do you think so little of my opinion that you'd think my honest desire to share my life with you makes me somehow flawed?"

"I am no great catch, Hermione."

"Maybe to someone incredibly superficial like Lavender Brown!" Hermione cried, her face flushing suddenly. "I happen to think you are _more_ than appealing in quite a few areas."

"And what areas would those be— Miss Granger?"

His voice was a rumble, a purr, and something indisputably male.

Hermione shuddered, grasping her own shoulders with her hands. "Your voice, for example, could read me the entire _History of Magic_ or the _Oxford English Dictionary,_ and I would be a _very_ happy woman."

Snape's eyes widened. "You're not lying."

"I don't lie well," Hermione said, reddening slightly. "It gives me a rash."

"I thought that was Venomous Tentacula pollen."

"That too."

Severus closed his eyes a moment. "Are there any other things about me that appeal to you?"

"I _love_ watching you work— how your fingers move across the cutting board, your easy gestures. The way your fingers draw across your chin when you're deep in thought. How you fiddle with your buttons when you're thinking."

"How you smell of parchment and ink with just a touch of cinnamon toothpaste and that hint of leather-bound books."

Hermione sighed.

"Why do you seem so resigned?" Snape asked wryly. "Am I not the one with the monopoly on such fatalistic introspections?"

Hermione smiled half-heartedly. "I am used to having what I truly wish for being just out of my reach— untouchable."

Snape closed his eyes. "You could—" He seemed to freeze in place, his face tortured. "Touch me, if that is what you wish."

Hermione's fingers alighted upon his cheek, a gentle brush of skin against warm skin.

Severus hissed softly, the very sensation of her touch a pleasure he had never known nor allowed himself.

Her breath tickled his skin. "You could touch _me—_ if you wish to."

His dark eyes stared into hers, his expression so very still. "I do wish to."

He looked out over Black Lake. "I fear we have way too many eyes upon us— as you know, at Hogwarts, privacy is a bit of a— lie."

Hermione smiled slightly. "Well, it is good that I had Minerva have the entire student body help Hagrid move all his earthly possessions to France so he could be with Madam Maxime. As a—" She smiled a little more. "Thank you for all he had done for Hogwarts."

Snape stared at her. "You managed to get Hagrid moved to France with all of his dangerous little pet projects?"

"Most of them, yes. The Acromantulas will be removed with the yearly fires the centaur use to promote germination and kill off invasives— something they haven't been able to do in that area because of Hagrid's continual meddling. The fires will drive them out and the DRMC will sweep them up and back to southeast Asia, their natural habitat."

Hermione continued on rather obliviously. "I just detailed out all the benefits of him moving to where she was, and how much safer Hogwarts would be to the Board of Governors, and they completely agreed with my argument that a day or two off school helping him move while practicing practical magic was a _great_ idea—"

She kept blabbering on until Severus's mouth covered hers.

"You talk too much," he said softly, his hand brushing lightly against her ear and cheek, fingers entangled into her hair.

Hermione gave a soft otterlike squeak as her eyes widened and then closed as she was drawn into his embrace.

They barely even noticed as Hogwarts' meddling magic flared and swept them both away—

* * *

Hermione spasmed, her hands clenching and fingernails dragging across Severus' back as he moved over her, his mouth wreaking pleasurable havoc across her skin as he seemed disinclined to allow even a single inch of her to go unexplored.

"Sssssseverus," she moaned, as he pinned her hands to her sides, his strong fingers caging hers as he pressed his mouth to her neck and took her skin between his teeth.

She mewled beneath him, her sounds of increasing desire doing more than simply inciting a growing temptation in her chosen lover.

A black curtain of hair framed his face, and he looked like a wild maned creature creeping out of the darkness as the black of his hair contrasted against the pale white of his alabaster skin.

Scars checkered his skin like a patchwork map, a testament to what he had survived and endured.

She looked up at him with such wonder, and with every touch of her hands, stealthily wriggled out from under his, she explored and worshipped each one.

She pressed up against his naked flesh, her glorious warmth invading his space like a radiant sun. He wore only the silken cravat around his neck— tied somewhat messily but with no lack of love. The colours of the silk reflected in her eyes, and he drank in her gaze as his body strived to both claim her as his as much as it desired to be claimed by her.

He rubbed his cheek against her head, marvelling how dense and soft it was— like an otter's fur.

"Hermione," he rumbled. His hands roamed to her breasts, his thumbs brushing against them just enough to send jolts down to lower places, and she gasped, her eyes pooling light like living fire as she breathed out his name. Her body shuddered under his ministrations as her body let it be known that she was ready for him.

"Severus," she called to him. " _Please."_

His mouth covered hers, for once the very word "please" didn't trigger an immediate anguish and memory train wreck that plummeted him back to the astronomy tower at Hogwarts. His tongue slid against her cheek as his mouth moved to her ear, her neck, and her shoulder, trailing kisses as she practically exploded in desire and frustration.

Her sweet mouth wrought delicious agony upon his neck as she drew his blood to the surface of his skin. His eyes rolled back as an instinctive growl escaped his throat, and he thrust with abandon, unable to control himself any longer.

She clasped his back, her arms wrapping around him as she hissed in victory as his length buried inside her, the sensation of her welcoming heat causing his eyelids to flutter, his eyes to roll back, and his entire body to be consumed in need for her specific mixture of scent, skin, and intoxicating sounds of approval.

Every thrust sent jolts of ecstasy through his body as their magic seemed to flow out of them, merge together, and wrap around them like the weaving of a cocoon.

_One strand._

_Another._

_Tighter and tighter._

The was the primal growl of a primordial beast, and it was him as he worked himself into a frenzy, fed by the sounds of his mates breathless cry of his name like a mantra, a prayer, a siren's call—

His hands went everywhere, covering every surface, drifting across her skin like the tide as the pressure inside himself built up to bursting and he felt as if every minute of his life played in fast forward in that one moment leading to this one, perfect union.

She was clawing at him even as he crushed her against himself, their bodies quaking in tandem as they were locked together, unable to leave the other's heated embrace. He was seeing colours everywhere in heightened detail. Magic danced around everything. He could see both through and around what was both seen and unseen. He could feel every cell, breath, movement—

_Tighter._

His arms locked around her, pulling her as if they would merge together as one being, basking in her undeniable love, knowing that he had been a fool to deny himself— deny her— this moment.

Whatever doubts that he might have had, he was a truly a fool to have let it fester and seethe unacknowledged for so long.

 _This_ was the dream—

Had he known it was possible, he'd have moved heaven and Earth to obtain it, even denied a Dark Lord his service— or Albus his slave.

His lips pressed against her temple as he felt her arms tighten around his body. "I love you," he whispered.

_Tighter._

"I love you too," she breathed into his ear, her lips pressing against his cheek.

Magic tightened into a dense sphere between them as tendrils of power shot into their bodies, thumping like the beat of a heart shared. With each pulse, the beat became stronger, stronger—

_**FOOOOOOOM!** _

It blasted outward in a nova of energy, even as it filled them from head to toe, their magical reserves overflowing from excess.

The entirety of London went out.

Every light.

Every computer.

Every device.

Every watch.

Trains stopped.

Cars stalled.

And the skies above were vast and beautiful once more, no longer hampered by the artificial light of humans.

And for about a few hours—Muggles truly saw the world as magical creatures flitted about in the darkness as real as themselves.

And it was beautiful.

But Hermione and Severus didn't see it.

They were asleep, tangled in each others arms as the magical rivers between them flowed together and tendrils of ancient magic bound them together in an undeniable bond at long last.

* * *

"I'm telling you, mate," Ronald said, a forkful of _hutspot_ in his mouth from a small paper sampler dish. "There is no way 'Mione would get together with that greasy git. Business is one thing, but why would he let him touch her when there are so many better options? I mean, since she's obviously so desperate, I'll marry her. It's what my mum wants anyway."

Harry eyed his best mate rather skeptically. "Somehow I don't think that would go over too well, mate," Harry said as they entered the potions shop.

There was an otter imperiously squeaking orders from the counter as a young apprentice attempted to keep up with her. The poor apprentice seemed at wit's end in trying to stay on top of a task list, and the otter in question was managing to squeak orders while laser-lining all of the products on the shelves.

"Messrs Potter, Weasley," Snape's voice rumbled from behind the counter. "What brings you to our store this dreadfully sunny morning?" His eyes flicked to Ronald. "There is a wash basin by the door to wash that grease off your hands and face, Mr Weasley, before you end up having to buy everything you touch."

Ron reddened even as he begrudgingly washed up in the magical basin. The enchanted towel rubbed over his hands and face until his freckles seemed lighter before it smacked him a few times, self-cleaned itself, and then folded itself neatly on the side of the basin once more.

Ron nudged Harry to start speaking, using his elbow as leverage to spur Harry into action.

Harry glared at Ron for a moment before clearing his throat.

"I'm here on official business, Snape," Harry said, wincing as the otter on the shelf spewed out a chain of irritated otterese that quite clearly told him off. "Sir."

The otter nearby seemed to glower at him, but she Disapparated to a different shelf, carefully nosing bottles into place.

"Wait for me, Master!" the apprentice called, stumbling after awkwardly.

"Oh, and what business could you possibly require of me?" Snape asked, his dark eyes seeming to smoulder.

"I'm here to deliver the official notice. The Ministry attempted to send owls, but for some reason they always came back covered smelly tar."

"How unfortunate," Snape said, his expression not changing. "What notice would _that_ be, Mr Potter?"

"A marriage law!" Ronald blurted. "For everyone under fifty!"

The otter on the shelf spit out a chain of otterese that seemed to start and end with _Lutrinae_ profanity.

"Goody," Snape said, his expression impassive. "How glorious that I do not have to worry about such degrading Ministry matchmaking."

Ron nudged Harry and whispered a bit too loudly, "See, I _told_ you he was too old. No way would 'Mione ever marry the likes of him! They'd have to have—" He shuddered. "Kids!"

"I believe you'll find evidence of my marriage in the office of magically binding magic-blessed soulbound sealed et cetera and so forth legally beyond reproach marriages filed in that special drawer that hasn't been opened since long before the time of Albus Dumbledore's birth." Snape sniffed. "So, I fear if you have come to profess your undying love and petition for my hand, I am already taken." He smiled, showing his yellowed, crooked teeth. "So _very_ sorry," he added, his lip curling with customary disdain.

Both Harry and Ron seemed to turn green at the thought of it, and that did not go unnoticed by Snape.

"Can't imagine who would be desperate enough to marry him," Ron muttered under his breath. " _ **OW!"**_

Ron yelped as a deodorising sachet smashed into his forehead and perfumed him with the scent of tea roses, having been swatted there by a certain otter's skillful tail swipe.

"Look, 'Mione," Ron said, staggering, clearly not realising where the sachet had come from. "I'll petition for you, yeah? You won't have to work for the greasy git anymore, and mum says it's about time we got together—"

"I wouldn't touch her, Mr Weasley," Snape warned.

"Oh, sod off, Snape! It's not like you'd ever want her!"

Ron put a hand on Hermione's furred back—

_**KERZAPPPPP!** _

A ginger-furred pygmy hog stood in Ron's place, who promptly ran straight into the counter and knocked itself unconscious.

Snape picked up the otter and snuggled her. "As I was attempting to warn you, Mr Weasley. Touching the magically-bonded wife of another wizard without her permission tends to brass off magic in some rather startling ways."

"Wait—" Harry blurted, his eyes growing wide. "Hermione is married to—"

Severus leaned on the counter, his arms crossed and his hair framing his face. " _Me_."

"But you—" Harry stammered. "My mum—" His ears seemed to steam as he put two and two together and ended up with pi.

Snape tilted his chin up. "She _loves_ me, Mr Potter. Something your mum never did. Consider then what I did for your mum's memory and what I would do for Hermione, who actually loves me in return."

Harry Potter, the Auror-Who-Knew-When-to-GTFO, promptly picked up the unconscious Ronald Weasley-the-pygmy-hog, and fled the store in all due haste.

Hermione's arms slipped around Severus' waist as her head lay against his back. "Magic is _beautiful_ ," she said.

Severus' lips curved upward as he turned to scoop his wife up into his arms. "Yes, love. It most certainly is."

_**FOOP!** _

A pitch-black otter and a cognac-brown otter chased each other around the store, Hermione's poor apprentice trying in vain to keep up behind them.

And they lived happily (and wickedly) ever after.

* * *

**Happy SSHG Giftfest! I hope you enjoyed the story!**


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